A Work of Art
by littleredwritinggleek
Summary: He's a lonely bartender. She's a broken painter. Both dreamers. Can they fix each other? Rating subject to change.
1. Chapter 1

Now that I'm fully inspired, I've spent a lot of time working on this little tale. The intro is short, but chapters will be longer. It's different than my usual style, as the flow isn't so structured. I really hope you enjoy it, reviews are amazing.

xoxo,

littleredwritinggleek_  
_

* * *

He's lived in New York City his entire life, but he's never seen a girl like her before. Blonde waves flowing from a black fedora, a curve hugging strapless number slipped over her thin frame. He hears the click of her heels and his heart stops as he looks up from behind the counter, the chime of the door fading.

She's fucking _gorgeous_.

He keeps his eyes focused on the bottles behind the bar, secretly watching as she strides over and slides onto a stool, crossing her legs. The smell of cigarettes and vanilla perfume fills the air, and it's intoxicating.

Puck leans forward on his elbows.

"What's a girl like you doing in a place like this, Blondie?" Sure, he's being smooth, but he honestly has to wonder. She's hot as hell but looks fragile at the same time, like china. The bar is old, smokey, lit by a neon sign. In fact, if it wasn't tucked away on the street where it was, he knew that people would complain about it being an eyesore.

She mimics his posture, inching towards him. Hazel eyes rimmed in black peer up at him, and he's smitten, drawn into the gold-flecked fires in front of him. A thousand more questions flood his mind.

"I wasn't sure, until now." Her red lips form the words slowly, her soft voice oozing sex.

He pours her a shot.

"I don't think that you are. But I'll be glad to help you out." He says, sliding the small glass towards her. He's curious to see if she can even handle the alcohol.

She slams in down in the most graceful way he's ever seen anyone take a shot. Her tongue glides over the rim, licking the remains of the liquid. Tipping her hat back coolly, she sighs, as if they're playing a game and she's just lost.

"I'm too much of that kind of girl." She admits, staring at her empty glass. The change in her demeanor is sudden, and he wonders why she feels like she can say anything to him at all. Most importantly, he wonders why it feels so natural to listen.

The girl in front of him looks vulnerable, and he can't help but try to figure out why.

"Always getting your heart broken?" He means for it to sound mocking, because, like he'd ever invest in someone's feelings. But it sounds soft, caring actually. He finds himself sitting on a stool behind the counter. The place is practically empty, just like it is every night. Sometimes, he wonders how it even stays open. It's one of the reasons that he initially found it odd for her to even walk in.

"Yeah, something like that." She pauses, contemplating what to say next. "Any by now, I'm damaged goods." Her eyes are downcast, and it's like she's letting him in on secret and after secret that she's never told anyone before.

He nods. Normally he doesn't do this, talk to girls like this, but he can't help it. Puck's captivated by her in every way.

"I understand that." He offers.

"You'd only break my heart.", she says, eying him.

"There's a lot you don't know about me."

She digs through her small bag and sets a few bills on the counter as she gets up. He watches her, willing her to stay, give him her name, number, _something. _She's giving him feelings he can't shake, ones he's never experienced before and thus can't name or describe. His eyes follow her to the door, watching her leave. She pauses as she opens it, halfway into the cool, dark night. Her slim frame turns toward him, an air of mischievous light cast in her eyes.

"I'd like to find out."

The door chimes as it closes. And with that, she's gone.


	2. Chapter 2

A big thanks to _BMontague _and _QuickSapphire _who took the time to leave me lovely reviews. Also, thanks to anyone who followed or favorited. I'm really loving going back through this and typing it, so updates will be frequent. As for length, this will not be a 20+ chapter story, unless lightning strikes and I can't stop. Which is possible, because I have fallen in love with these two all over again, and I hope you do as well. Reviews are really appreciated!

xoxo,

littleredwritinggleek

* * *

He's organizing a few bottles the next night when she walks in. She's in boots and tights jeans. Her white t-shirt and black suspenders seem a little strange, but he can't help but notice the way that her shirt is_ just_ tight enough. Like a phantom emerging from the shadows, she steps out of the night and into the bar., wearing that same damn hat over that same silky hair and those same tempting red lips. He thinks that she's too good for this place. Like she needs to be somewhere else. He doesn't know where. She sort of breaks all definitions. Maybe the bar is where she belongs.

He reaches for a shot glass as she sits, but she shakes her head.

"Something slow." she murmurs.

He sets a glass of white wine before her. Her pretty lips take a thoughtful sip from the glass as he sits down. The bar is a fucking hole in the wall, anyways.

"Tell me something about yourself." She demands coolly.

He raises an eyebrow in reply.

"Anything." She finishes.

"I'm Puck."

She lets out a laugh, and it sends a shiver up his spine, it's that beautiful.

"That's not your name" She shakes her head.

"Yes, it is." He challenges.

"What is your last name?"

"Puckerman." He replies too quickly.

She gives him a satisfied smirk.

"Puck Puckerman. Creative parents." She's almost smiling but sips her wine, hiding it.

"Fine." He grumbles. "It's Noah."

"That's a nice name. Cute, actually."

"I'm not cute, I'm a badass." He protests.

"And you said I didn't know anything about you. You're typical." She says it like it's a fact. She makes it hard to disagree with her, in a strange way. So he doesn't push it.

"And you're?"

"Quinn."

"That's not your real name." He mocks playfully.

"You're right. It isn't." She gives him a sad smile. Almost there, he thinks. Somehow he's formed this mission to make her smile. To see those red lips upturned, her white teeth gleaming, the lines around her eyes all crinkled up.

She throws back the rest of her wine, lays down money, and gets up.

"That's a secret for another night."

"Tomorrow?" He asks, a bit too eagerly.

She gives him a nod and steps back into the night.

* * *

Quinn. Quinn Fabray. She comes in every night, and they talk. Her outfits change, but she always has this effortless dark glamor about her, and she's always wearing the black fedora and red lipstick.

He learns that she's from Ohio, left for New York after high school. She came from a strict family to be an artist. She could have been a brain surgeon, he discovers through observation, she's that brilliant. She'd deny it anytime, but he knows it's true. The Ivy league life originally planned for her wouldn't have been right, but she could have done it, he thinks. He's secretly happy she didn't. Quinn's twenty-four, same as him, and hasn't talked to her family since she left. Her father cheated on her mom when she was sixteen, and her mother got a new boyfriend her senior year of high school. Her sister was the perfect daughter, stereotypical. Quinn claims that deep down they both knew that Quinn was never going to be that. He likes knowing that, how defiant and rebellious she was.

"They said I was on my own at age eighteen, but I'd been on my own two years before that. Maybe even eighteen before that." She told him, sipping diet coke and rum.

It took two weeks for him to learn all of that. He'd shared his story along the way as well. Always lived in New York, dirt poor, dad bailed when he was young, all of it.

And he was never open with anyone.

* * *

He doesn't let her know that he knows, but tonight it's been a month since she first walked through the doors.

"Something that will take me away." She asks.

In that moment he realizes just how fragile she is.

He mixes her a strong drink anyways.

* * *

If he learns anything, it's that she volunteers things at her own pace, on her own time., and she always, without fail, leaves him wanting. He's always on the edge, anxiously waiting for another glimpse into her life. It's a game. He waits, so eager, for the little pieces of her that are hard to come by. It's like she's a puzzle, and he is trying to put her together, figure her out. Except her pieces are misshaped, rough around the edges, and blunt ,uneasy to fit together. He'll never stop trying, he secretly vows. Puck wants nothing more than to be the filler for those pieces, to wedge himself in the spaces that are empty. To complete her.

Red lips tell him something, but he can't help it.

It's never enough.

* * *

She kisses well, really well. She's sitting on the bar, arms wrapped around his neck. Her slim curves are wrapped up in a tight, short skirt, a ruffled top loosely tucked in. She works at a run of the mill office as a temp to make ends meet, and from the look in her eyes, it wasn't a good day. She tugs at his Mohawk, sighing into his lips. He's fully lost in her, as well, his fists clutching her hair. She tastes like beer tonight, and it doesn't suit her. But then again, few things really do, she's that rare.

"You cannot save me." She whispers, and it comes out of her mouth breathy, tumbling from her lips along with moans and sighs. Yet, he can hear the determination in her voice, the control she needs to have.

But for once, he's the one leaving _her_ hanging.


	3. Chapter 3

Your reviews make me happy. I love them. I know this update is quick(no pun intended ;), but I can't help myself. Thanks to all who reviewed chapters one and now two. If you haven't gotten the chance yet, no worries. So thanks also to_ gleeotfriends90210cccjsAMD _and _miss agron_, as well as the future chapter two reviewers, if you're out there! This chapter gets a little steamy, and the rating will probably be M at some further ado, chapter three.

xoxo,

littleredwritinggleek

* * *

"What do you paint, draw?" He asks one night.

This night is typical, like the others. They've formed a habit, routine, now. She comes in and somehow, they end up lost in each others lips, then they just talk. Sometimes she stays awhile, sometimes she doesn't. He's learned so much about her, yet wants to know volumes more.

He takes a sip of beer, slowing drinking it down. The lights from the street outside are reflecting through the glass-front of the bar, illuminating her blonde, lush hair. The fedora is currently sitting on the bar right beside her. Quinn's waves are messy from all of the haphazard combing and scrunching his fingers did just fifteen minutes ago. He likes it.

"My dreams." Her soothing voice snaps him out of his daydream, luring him back to her. Her dreams. She gives him a soft smile, the fainest one ever, but he feels accomplished nonetheless. And suddenly, it's like a door is quietly opened, and she is saying, _"Here I am. Quinn. I want to be with you just as much as you want to be with me."_ Only it doesn't come out that way. Instead she says,

"Okay.", her eyes smiling right along with her lips as she tries to hide the shyness that comes over her, looking down at her lap where she's playing with her hands.

But that's just her way of things.

And he knows that by now.

And just knowing that he knows, that he can read her like that, lights him up.

* * *

His strong arms are wrapped around her firmly as the elevator slowly makes its way up to her fifth floor apartment. The building is run-down, broken like her.

He pushes the door to her studio-type apartment open as she peppers his neck with kisses, leaving little red lip-shaped tattoos all over him. He doesn't mind at all.

They stumble their way in and it hits him all at once. It's so, _her. _He sees black, white, and gray everywhere. The only color is red, splashes of it vibrant against the charcoal buildings she's drawn. That and her lips. Those soft, full, amazing, enticing lips, so _red._

There are canvases everywhere. Hung on the walls, propped up against a bookshelf, filled with romance novels, and classic lit and poetry and he can just _see_ her drinking coffee and getting lost in her books in the early morning light. Her bed is tucked away in a corner, small and flooded with pretty bedding that he knows didn't just come in some put together set. The whole place has her in it, and he can see Quinn in every last detail. It's amazing. The most precious one is the blackboard hung on the back wall. In the most careful strokes, she had drawn chalk cities and maps. It's stunning to look at. A collision of places, skyscrapers flooding into dotted lines and little words, the names of towns and areas.

"You dream of cities." He states, unclasping her bra.

Her tiny, delicate hands tug at his jeans. "And sometimes you."

The sex is mind-blowing. She's not just a paper and brush artist, she has that attitude for everything she does, he realizes. Every move she makes is careful and deliberate, yet passionate and carefree, a mix that he can't quite wrap his head around. It's like she's in a studio, and touching and caressing is all an art form for her. He's more than happy to reciprocate, adding his own personal knowledge of music to it. He feels and breathes and moves fluidly, rhythmic as he whispers sweet words into her ear. He has her singing.

They both know what it is. It's not just sex, it's making love.

He's holding her on her mattress, tattooing her collarbone with gentle kisses that same night.

"It's Lucy."

He stops, looking at her. "What?"

She settles back into him, resting against his chest.

"They made up a mean nickname about me when I was twelve."

He's a little confused, but keeps in mind the way she is. She goes when she wants to. And he doesn't mind being the one to pause and listen.

"Why?" He asks.

Her hazel eyes are two fires extinguished with tears as she stares up at him.

"I like to make art, because it's the one thing that, with careful perfecting, will always be beautiful."

She's never looked more beautiful to him.

* * *

He wakes up alone. It doesn't worry him. After she soundlessly let her tears fall as she drifted off to sleep in his arms, he knows that she couldn't leave. Well maybe she could, but he wouldn't expect her to. It's her place anyways. He's fixing her, he thinks. But then he realizes that he's just as broken as she is, and needs fixing too. But it feels nice. When he was younger, he couldn't ever fix the sequence of events that turned his life upside down. He couldn't heal his mom and sister forever. He won't stop trying with Quinn, though.

He pulls on his jeans and finds her. Dressed in her lingerie and draped in a sheet, she sits on the fire escape, smoking a cigarette. The sun is just barely starting to rise.

"Come back to bed." He says, his tone gentle. "It's early."

She exhales a cloud of smoke, looking like a sinful angel. Her hair is wispy and messy, her skin pale with an ethereal glow to it. With her golden hair and fair skin, it doesn't feel right, watching her. It's like looking at a picture of heaven covered in storm clouds. To Puck, it's almost unsettling.

"New York and I never sleep." She says distantly, looking off at the streets below.

He notices just how tired her eyes really are.

He has a lot more fixing to do, he thinks.

* * *

Reviews are lovely!


	4. Chapter 4

Hi! The feedback from everyone is fantastic. Thanks to :_QuickSapphire,_

_ and _

_ Gleekalwaysand4everBMontague _  
_ gleeothfriends90210cccjsAMD_

For your lovely reviews. This chapter reveals a lot, and has a lot of emotion. I hope you like it!

xoxo,

littleredwritinggleek

* * *

"Sing for me."

They're dancing aimlessly on the bar's hard wood floors, keeping time to an imaginary beat. Her head is nestled in his shoulder. Besides a drunken man face down on a table in the back, surrounded my empty glasses, they're alone."

By now he's figured that there is absolutely one thing that he's sure of, and it's that there is no request he can deny her. It isn't like she's spoiled, but rather that he can sense just how alone she's always been. Sometimes, it is secretly frustrating. He loves her, but she is _such _a closed book. Trying to heal Quinn is like trying to put together something that doesn't have instructions. Putting together something he has never seen before. Or like fixing a broken appliance without knowing what went wrong in the first place. All guesswork. But he'd do anything for her, just to finally fix something in his life.

_"Beth I hear you calling..." _He isn't sure of when he first heard the song, first listened to it's words. Or why he is even singing it. But he feels helpless, like he isn't doing Quinn any good. Somehow, it fits.

Her eyes are closed, but the tears still escape them. He doesn't know how to comfort her, and really, Puck feels like throwing up his hands and shouting to God almighty himself,

"_How the hell do I make her better?"_

But he can't really do that. So he continues t breathe beautiful lyrics into her ear, rubbing small circles into her back as their first stop moving and she crumbles in his arms.

It's a start.

* * *

"I need to go back." She says, opening his fridge. It's moments like these when he wishes he could paint, capturing the way she looks standing in nothing but his t-shirt. Paint the way she talks, the way she smells just like him, bottle it up and treasure it forever.

He continues to strum his guitar, but looks up.

"Where?"

She splashes skim milk into a mug of coffee, eyes never leaving her cup.

"Lima."

"I'll go with you." Because, he'd follow her anywhere. There is nagging feeling in his stomach, one that says this trip is going to be, difficult.

"I'd like that."

* * *

Somewhere along the way, she revealed that her mom is never home on the weekends. How she knows this, without having talked to her own mother in years, is beyond him. But he just nods and drives. She's restless the entire drive there, fidgeting with the radio and shifting in her seat. It makes him nervous, but he has to be the calm, composed one.

They pull up along Dudley Road.

"You sure?" He asks, the car running as they sit in her driveway.

"No, but I'm here, aren't I?"

He takes her wrists in his hands, standing behind her, an anchor as she twists an ancient key into the lock.

"Wait here." she instructs, walking up the grand staircase.

He looks around. It is a gorgeous house, like it belongs on a glossy page of some home design magazine. But in all ways, it is empty. He cannot imagine her living here, walking around or watching television or anything. He wonders what it must have felt like to be a prisoner in your own home for years.

She returns clutching a stuffed lamb, her eyes red.

"Thank you." She whispers.

He wraps his arms around her.

"Please." he begs. He can't be here and not know. He has to know. "Please just let me in."

She stroked the animal's plush head. "Fine."

She led him into the kitchen and informed him that she could in no way do this without being at least a little tipsy. So after a glass of wine and fifteen minutes, gathering her thoughts and leaving him curious, she sat down.

"My senior year, my mom got a boyfriend. You know that." He nodded.

"Okay." She sucked in a breath.

"Well, he was nice and she's still dating him now, but he was rich. Like, really rich. I never really spoke to him, he wasn't ever around too much for me to be close with him or anything like that. So one day, a Friday in the fall, she told me that he was taking her on a vacation. Just the weekend. I was seventeen. So I could handle myself. Well, on Monday, she wasn't home. And the days sort of ticked by. When she had left, there was like, a little over a week's worth of groceries in the house. And she still wasn't home. A week turned into two, and she wasn't home." He saw her composure start to crumble as her voice shook. Anger seeped its way into her eyes.

"So I called and called, but nothing. Her cell phone wasn't even on. So I'm in the house, no food, barely any money, and then the bills start coming. Utilities and and electricity and all of that. And I have no way of paying for them."

He knew where this was going.

"So, I'm trying to wait things out. They shut everything off three weeks later. And I was dangerously thin. I was barely eating, alone in a big house, trying to just get to school and I don't even know. I stopped going to school during the last part of the month, calling myself off. So after a month and a week of her being gone, she comes home. Tan and laughing and so_ fucking_ happy. And she pays the late bills and goes grocery shopping like it is_ fucking_ nothing. She_ left_ me, by myself. And acted like it was no big deal. And when she came through the door, I shut down. I blacked out. I had really low blood sugar and a bunch of other stuff. And after all that, she never apologized. She never cared. When I was a junior, things got better. My dad was gone, I was connecting with her, you know? And then, she just disposed of me. Like I was old clothing that she didn't have any use for."

She's crying uncontrollably by now, and he's so angry. So_ fucking_ angry.

But he remains calm, her rock. He holds her and she just cries. He's never seen anything like it, let alone her do it. But she shakes and sobs and tears stream every which way and she _cries_.

"I love you." She says. "I love you, so damn much,that it hurts.

He kisses the top of her head.

" I love you, too."


	5. Chapter 5

The update took a little longer, sorry! Okay, I wish I had the time to list out names, but I want to get this chapter out as soon as possible. In short, thank you all _so_ much! Anyways, this chapter _could be_ M. However, even though I like to be safe, I'm not sure if it needs the change in rating. So I'll go with a semi-adult-material warning. I don't think it needs to be M. Fanfic has changed some rules around with ratings, so I'm really not sure.

Furthermore, I present Chapter 5.

xoxo,

littleredwritinggleek

* * *

They're half-naked, lounging in her apartment. She paints her toes as he studies her chalkboard.

"Paris is on here, a lot. So is Lima." He observes out loud.

"Dreams and nightmares are all the same to me." She replies, her gaze never leaving her toes.

He sits back down, grabbing his guitar. They're in an awkward faze, one where they half live in each others places, drawers mixed with both their belongings.

"You wanted to be famous with that guitar." She points out as he strums softly. He's played for her a lot, and she always had listened so intently, like she really felt it, cared.

"More than anything."

"But," She finishes,"That was then."

He looks up at her, leaning over as she carefully brushes gray polish onto her toenails carefully. Even that is art to her.

His gaze meets her, finally. "Yeah,that was then."

"What do you want now?" It's so blunt, so out there, so simply asked, it astounds him.

"To escape, just as much as you do."

* * *

He shakes his head."There's no way."

"Way." She says softly, her eyes wide as if it's simply a surprise to her to.

"But how?"

"I made the mistake of being lonely on my first Christmas and sending my sister a card. She forwarded the address to my mom."

Because in front of them, is all of Quinn's banking information. And the papers say that she has money. A lot of it.

"So she's been sending you checks?"

She looks down. "Yes. I cashed them, but never spent them."

Another incredulous shake from his head reveals that he doesn't get it.

"Why?"

"Because I never wanted her to buy my happiness."

"But now?"

She reaches over, taking his hands in hers.

"I'll take happiness, any way I can get it."

* * *

The place is small, but it will work. Well, small is quite the understatement. It's shoe-box sized, really. The saving grace is the bare wooden room attached like an afterthought in the back. It looks like it's undergoing renovation, in the early stages where everything is stripped down to nothing. His guitar resides in there along with her art, and a small upright piano covered in staff paper and sheet music faces the wall. The day they left New York she washed the blackboard clean, scrubbing the immaculate details off with angry tears in her eyes.

"New dreams." She had said.

She didn't have a board in their Paris apartment.

He loves watching her. Everything about her fits here. It's a perfect match. She learns the language as she shops, buying croissants and whatever else is pretty, vibrant, or smells good. She carries a loose burlap bag in the crook of her elbow and fills it with whatever catches her eye. She peers, ponders, and experiences the market in the most natural way. He loves watching her smell homemade bars of fragrant soap, examine strange ingredients, and utter what French she knows as she muses over all of it. He's content to watch her, one step behind her and she moves, like a child in a candy store. Slowly but surely, she relaxes. Her eyes don't deep so hurt, her clothes don't seem so dark. She moves around in blouses that tie in loose bows in the front, flowing skirts, small boots that lace up. She's so natural, becoming herself. It's weird to see her without the fedora so often, her red lipstick seeming strange without it. But he likes it. She's a walking painting, a movie, the perfect character for a fairytale in the city of love.

* * *

She studies his naked figure, brush in hand. All he knows is that two minutes ago, they were working in quiet, he composing and she painting.

Now they're in the studio, stripped down to nothing.

Straddling him, she ponders her first step. His chiseled body is the perfect canvas.

"Hmm." She drawls.

"Hmm." He replies, a small smile on his face.

"Uh-uh. The subject must remain perfectly still." Her eyes smile, and she pushes her hat down a little further on her head.

She dips the brush in red paint, and carefully makes a few brush strokes,biting her lip. The medium is cool on his burning skin. His eyes watch her trail further and further down, dangerously moving closer. His hand stops her at the last second, grabbing her brush.

"My turn." He takes the brush and flicks a little paint on her.

From there they're art in motion, like a speed painting. He rolls over her and they make love, make art. Colors mix and blend with every fluid movement.

By the end of the night they're covered, and it's both abstract and beautiful.

* * *

If there's one thing about Paris that changes them, it's the fact that they've both been so happy. His music gets better, her art sells. He isn't really surprised, however, when things take a tense turn.

They're both working in the studio. She sits at her easel, frowning in concentration. He's cradling his guitar, scratching and scribbling at the scattered staff paper in front of him.

"Dammit!" She says, dropping her brush with an angry sigh of frustration. A black splatter lands on his sheet music, successfully covering up a measure of painstakingly drawn notes.

'What the fuck, Q!" He yells, throwing the brush back at her canvas. Papers fly up, only spreading the much hated streak of paint across more phrases and rests.

She looks at him, dark, dangerous, daring. An ugly black line stretches across her little French street.

"You did _not _just do that."

"The proof is covering your damn little brushstrokes."

She picks up a piece of paper covered in music, and drops it right onto a palette of paint.

"Oh typical you, loving to cover things up." he says.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"You know what I mean. You, with your secrets, you hiding under what you wear, always leaving me fucking guessing. You _know_."

"Do I? What the hell do you want? For me to recount every bad experience in my life? To tell you that my senior year wasn't even the half of it? That my dad cheated on my mom with a girl as old as my sister? Huh? That I starved myself to be thinner, to fit in? Oh yeah, let's cry about _that_. What do you want, Puck? Let's exchange sob stories over every bad thing that's happened to us. No, it's so obvious. You want me to be fucked up. To have issues. Because you _know _that you are. And you can't be the only one. You know that your dad left you to take care of a depressed mom and a baby sister at age nine. You told me all of that, just to see if what I had was worse. Well, the competition is on."

She walks over to him, and, with any strength she has, pushes him. Both are glowering, and it's times like these when their mutual stubbornness shines through, creating the clash of the century.

But, in their typical style, the fight turns into the taking off each others clothes, somewhere along the way. Her small hands tug at his jeans as if she's _trying _to inflict pain on him.

He roughly pins her against the floor, so angry over everything she's just said. It's the most she's probably ever said at once to him, and all of it was bad.

"Don't even test me."

He enters into her unexpectedly, with a forceful thrust.

She wriggles underneath of him, struggling for the dominance she won't get.

"Puck!" It's not _Noah_. It isn't breathy and beautiful, filled with love. The sound that elicits her mouth is loud and cheap, a horrible noise escaping the lips of a broken angel.

And when they both lay there, staring at the ceiling in the midst of destruction, they both know.

So the tears come without the attempt to stop them.

"I'm sorry." he says.

"Me too. I'm no better than what I came from."

"Don't." He says, still not looking at her."You were right."

"No, I wasn't. I was wrong, okay? So wrong. I just, I want to forget but that means that you don't know, and, I get it. You need to know. I need to tell you. I'm so sorry, love."

He pulls her in and she instinctively curls into him.

* * *

He spends the next month making it up to her. They dance in the streets, under the glow of lights. He cooks for her, because, he'd never tell her, but he is the chef of the two, most definitely. They drink wine under the Eiffel tower and he photographs her in secret as street performers serenade her, twirling and laughing, eyes dancing right along with the stars.

For a month they kiss, cuddle, and laugh.

But they don't have sex.

It's a welcome change for both.

* * *

Review? ;)


	6. Chapter 6

Wow. I cannot believe I'm here, typing the final installment. Your encouragement has been amazing, so thanks_  
_

mi1o

sinkorswim13

quickison

Guest

lost in a musical daydream  
GarnetAles

Jamber111

BMontague

gleeothfriends90210cccjsAMD

QuickSapphire

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miss agron

For your flawless reviews. They made my day, and put a smile on my face.

I thank as well as anyone who followed this but didn't review. Also, I want to thank **_BMontague_** for the idea in the last review. I had an idea about the chalkboard, but you inspired me to do something different, so thanks so much! :)

I really hope this was worth the wait. It was a joy to write, and I love you all for your amazing feedback. I plan on writing another story soon, so keep checking back!

Enjoy.

xoxo,

littlredwritinggleek

* * *

_"Baby." _she breathes, and it's heaven, every song he can't sing.

If not having sex was a welcome change, then he doesn't even know what having sex again is.

He loves it, loves her. The way he knows every inch of her body and takes command of it, the way he can feel, caress, kiss, _love _her amt know that he's the only one that gets to, the only woman for him, and he's her only man. He's in love with that.

So it all made sense in his head. And he got all excited. Her had everything planned, every last detail in place. It was going to be night, the dimly lit street, move-like perfection.

But since when were they by the book?

So it's after making love to her, laying next to her, on his side, looking into her eyes that he knows.

"Marry me."

"Mm." She says, sleepy and content.

"Quinn, marry me." He's looking right at her, watching her come alive. She arches an eyebrow, and suddenly, his nerves and fears all vanish. She's it.

"I've loved you since you first walked in the bar. I'll love you until, well, I'll always love you. And I'm not taking no for an answer." He says suggestively.

"Is that so?"

"Yes." He rolls over, hovering above her, the ring in his hand.

"Well, if I don't have a choice, then, yes." She smiles up at him. He slides the ring on her finger.

"I want this to be the only thing you're wearing, for quite some time." He says into her neck.

She warps her arms around him. "Whatever you say, _fiancee_."

* * *

It's a beautiful spring day. The air is warm with a slight breeze. He stands outside, outfitted in a tan suit, nervous. They recruited a few street performers to play a song when she walked out. He sees her, and he hears the click of heels, and it's magic and it's like that very first night, and is he_ breathing_?

She has her blonde hair loosely pulled back, small curls peeking out of a half-veil, like a 1940's bride, and her tea length dress is so light, and so perfect, and she's perfect. Her skin, her hair, it's like looking at a photograph. A sad, slow song plays and she walks, shyly, no father on her arm. He's on the verge of crying.

They softly speak vows of love to each other, in their own quiet way. And when he puts the ring on her shaking finger, he knows, what he's always known.

He _loves_ her.

They sit outside of a cafe at a small table with fancy chairs. They feed each other a light, pretty slice of cake, and a random photographer with a Polaroid camera captures the moment, hands them the picture, and says congratulations in French.

"Merci" Quinn calls out, and he echoes her. They look at the picture. Their arms are criss-crossed, her legs are crossed, and he's leaning in. The sun light is cast down on them, and they are laughing.

"Our wedding picture." Quinn smiles.

"I love you." he says.

* * *

He's never been more nervous. In his entire life, never, has he ever, been more nervous then now. She's so calm, and so collected, and he's kinetic energy that is spiraling out of control, tapping his legs up and down to a nervous beat inside his head. He's scared, and happy, and anxious, and he just wants to know.

Finally, after what seems like a lifetime, she walks out.

"Well?" He asks, rising.

She nods, and smiles, and keeps nodding. He picks her up and kisses her, lays her down on their bed gently, and they embrace. He's never been more happy.

Or scared.

Or, well, nervous.

But that doesn't matter. The happiness is all that matters.

Because he's going to be a dad. And Quinn's going to be a mom.

And like the phoenix rising from the ashes, they're starting over, making something out of nothing, leaving their footprint for all the world to see.

* * *

"Would you like to know?" The doctor asks, her french accent heavy.

Puck looks at Quinn and Quinn looks at Puck, and it's sort of an unspoken agreement.

"Oui." Quinn says.

"_Fille_, the doctor says, a little girl."

She walks out of the room and Puck and Quinn just stare at each other. He can already see it, a little blonde girl with his crooked smile and Quinn's hair, growing up in the streets of Paris. Their little girl.

"Are you happy?" he asks.

"I am. Are you happy?"

He reaches over and takes Quinn's hand in his, and they watch their baby move on the screen as the tears fall down their proud faces. Because words can't describe just how happy he is.

* * *

"You'll give birth in that hat." he says, walking into the room. A loose t-shirt is pulled over Quinn's just visible stomach, and she's standing, hands on her hips. He doesn't hide his smile.

"Maybe." She smiles.

After a long week, the room is almost done. She's just finished painting. The studio, transformed into a nursery. She painted the piano white, stashed most of her art in a closet, to be moved into a gallery, hopefully, and set up furniture.

"So, yellow? " He said, noting the walls.

"Do you like it? It's my favorite color."

"I love it. I can imagine you holding her in here." he grins. "But I thought your favorite color was red?"

She sets down her brush, and removes her hat.

'We all have our masks, Puck."

"You'd look good in yellow."

That afternoon she goes on a walk, and returns with a yellow sundress. It's happy and bright, yet soft and elegant. Perfect, just like her.

* * *

She sets the stuffed lamb in the crib he built and sighs contentedly.

"You did a good job, babe." He hugs her from behind, hands rested on her stomach.

"Thanks, but that far wall. Something looks off about it."

He grins. "When you needed me to get paint to finish it, so you could touch it up, I got something special.''

"I'm listening."

He reaches in his pocket, and pulls out a small box of chalk.

"It's chalkboard paint. Because your dreams are too big and beautiful to never capture again."

She turns and looks at him.

"Just because your dreams in New York were broken, doesn't mean that you should give up on your new ones.

She wraps her arms around him, her head buried in his chest.

"I love you so much." She says.

"I know. And I love you more."

* * *

He's singing as she cooks them breakfast, and for the first time, he hears her voice. It's soft, sweet, and pure.

She stops, noticing that he was listening.

"What?"

"We'll sing to her every night."

She gives him a look, like she's so touched, and then smiles.

"Okay."

And before they know it, the toast is burnt and the moment is over.

* * *

Terrified. That's what he is. Purely terrified. He sees his life before his eyes, clicking heels and bar lights and the city, all while her hand grips his.

_"Let me go!"_

Her voice is pure agony, and she's a limp, abused angel on a hospital bed. And he feels so guilty. Because he did this to her, and they want a baby, but Quinn. She's in such pain. And he wishes it was him instead. Because he vowed he'd never hurt her and-

_"Let me go!"_

His father was a dead beat. He doesn't even know how to be a dad. What if he messes up? What if Quinn leaves him? What if he's abandoned, and he screws it all up and-

_"Let me go!"_

Her innocent eyes look at him, pleading for help. He panics.

"You want your hat, don't you?"

"Don't. Make. Me Laugh." She says, but he can almost see her smile. And it's just,_ them_. And they don't know. But he knows in that moment that there is no one else he'd rather figure it out with. So he lets his hand be gripped tighter and watches with amazement as his witnesses the most beautiful moment of his life.

A cry fills the room, loud, but alive. And his follows suit as the silent tears runs down his face.

* * *

"Bethany, Beth for short." She cradles the pink bundle in her arms as he looks at them in awe.

"Bethany Lucille." He finishes, kissing her cheek.

"She's the most beautiful thing you've ever made." He says.

"We've made. She's my every dream and brushstroke. She's your lyrics, every note and line.

Who she'll be in life is abstract, but for right now, she's ours.

"A perfect work of art," He starts, smiling widely.

"How did I end up with two of them?"

* * *

Thanks for reading. Please leave a final review, letting me know what you thought!


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